The Downtrodden
by LachieOfChorrol
Summary: When the subjugated races form an alliance and take Cyrodiil, they plunge Tamriel into a civil war. A young Imperial thief and his Orcish friend must leave the safety of Skyrim and search for a way to end the fighting. Rated T for violence and cruelty.
1. Prologue

_**Disclaimer! I do not own any of the Elder Scrolls lore, characters, places and magic etc except for those I created.**  
><em>

Prologue

The High King of Skyrim, Hroldar the Just, sat at the head of a long, oaken and intricately carved table. Around the table were gathered his Thanes, advisors and generals. All murmured quietly among themselves as they waited for Hroldar to begin the meeting. All except an elderly Thane who appeared to have fallen asleep. The room around them was plain and orderly; the table dominated the centre leaving little room for excess furniture.

The King rose and all talked ceased immediately. His eyes drifted from face to face, his solemn expression showing them the gravity of the situation. He was the image of his people: fair skinned, sandy haired and blue eyed. Muscles rippled underneath his heavy crimson robe.

"My friends," he began in his deep voice, "I thank you all for meeting here on such short notice."

All inclined their heads in acceptance.

"Normally, we would now allow my steward to inform us of the treasury, economy and stock details but this meeting is much more serious. But I ask General Vilod to explain it to you." The King took his seat.

General Vilod pushed his thin, wiry form from his seat and cleared his throat. "We received some disturbing word only three watches ago," he began, "The Imperial City, capital of Cyrodiil and heart of the Cyrodiilic empire has fallen."

Silence greeted his words, even the sleeping thanes eyes flickered open.

"How?" asked a Breton adviser.

"Through stealth and deception. Before I continue, I must tell you that the Bosmer, Argonian and Khajiit nations have formed their own alliance called 'The Downtrodden'."

He paused while they absorbed the news then continued, "An unusually large group of Khajiit trading caravans arrived at the Imperial City three days ago on Loredas, 25th of Second Seed. They made camp and opened their stores outside the city like usual and all seemed well. Unbeknown to the city, Argonian poisoners poisoned the evening meals in all of the guard barracks with a slow poison. That night, the majority of the guards dropped dead at their posts. Specially trained Khajiit warriors called 'Silencers' scaled the walls and butchered the guards who remained alive. They then stole to the gate's gears and opened them allowing about a hundred Redguard mercenaries, who had been hiding in the overly large caravans, to enter the city along with fifty Bosmer archers. Any Bosmer, Argonian or Khajiit citizen of the city aided them as they asserted control of the city and stormed the palace. As far as we know, the same thing happened to all the major cities in Cyrodiil at a similar time."

They others all mentally reeled in shock. Many steadied themselves on the table. Vilod sat and began conferring with a general beside him. The King rose once again and said, "Now you understand. In the early watches of this very morning, I had the city watch and militia round up every person from any of these three races and place them under arrest. The dungeons are filled to the brim and I have passed along orders for the other cities to do the same."

"What of the Redguards?" asked an advisor, "How do we know that these mercenaries aren't acting on orders from Hammerfell?"

"We don't," stated another general flatly.

"Refugees are already crossing the border and into Skyrim," continued Hroldar, "The southern towns and cities are going to the snowed under with them."

"Is the entire Aldemiri Dominion a part of this outrage?" asked another Thane.

"No, we received a communication from the Summerset Isles strenuously denying any affiliation."

"My friends," the King said softly, "I ask your counsel."

"Send a message to our representative in Hammerfell," murmured the previously sleeping Thane, "Ask him to determine the king's intentions."

"Triple our military presence on the border," a general barked, "Make sure no gets in unchallenged."

"To completely blockade the border, you're going to need additional mages. Send a missive to the Collage of Winterhold, asking them to augment our forces on the border."

"The refugees are going to need somewhere to stay, alert the northern cities to accept refugees from the southerners."

The King relaxed in his chair as his court hammered out the plan. He could only hope that the Downtrodden took time to completely assert themselves over Cyrodiil and thus allow the other provinces to ready themselves. But he was doubtful.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Sorry about the short length of the prologue, it was just to let you know the background of the story :) Hope you all enjoy.**

**-H**

Chapter 1

_Four years later..._

_After consolidating their power in Cyrodiil, the Downtrodden quickly began to mount war parties into Morrowind from Cyrodiil and Black Marsh. The ferocity showed by the Khajiit and Argonian races, in their anger and resentment at their enslavement at the hands of the Dunmer, quickly cut through the Dunmer territory and destroyed it. The Dunmer are now scarce and in hiding throughout Skyrim. _

_High Rock has also been taken by the Downtrodden, with Orc and Breton refugees also fleeing to Skyrim._

_Skyrim itself still resists the Downtrodden but with their population effectively tripled; waves of economic recession and starvation have racked the country._

_After the massacre of Morrowind, the Altmer fled to the Summerset Isles and have warded their home in powerful magic. _

_The Redguards now fully support the Downtrodden after a coup from within allowed a leader sympathetic to the Downtrodden's cause to take the throne. As the final refugees from High Rock were fleeing across Hammerfell, the Redguard army slew them and closed their border to Skyrim. _

_Skyrim fights a losing war across its entire southern, eastern and western fronts. Even with the reinforcements of the refugee armies, they are outnumbered in a massive siege of an entire province. They stand alone, having no way to contact the Altmer across Tamriel._

* * *

><p>Reman Magria slipped into the narrow alleyway, his slim figure fitting snugly. He was an older boy, almost a young man of 17 years. A shock of dark, unruly hair covered the top of his head and hung above his gleaming gold eyes. His face was tanned with a long scar running from his temple to the corner of his lip, a testament to the cruelty of his uncle. He was clothed in plain rucksack tunic and leggings, with an iron shortsword belted at his waist in a scuffed scabbard. His most expensive piece of clothing was a black velvet cloak that he pulled close around him.<p>

He waited in the alley, breath steaming in the cold, Windhelm air as he panted. Hailing from Cyrodiil, his body was only just becoming acclimated to the Eastmarch's freezing winds and biting temperature. He stiffened as three heavily armoured men stumbled past his alley, weapons in hand. They were thugs, hired to bring Reman's head to their contractor. Reman waited for a minute after they passed then eased himself back onto the paved road. He glanced left and right and began to run in the direction opposite to the thugs.

A sharp movement above him flickered in his eyesight. He jumped to the left and pressed himself against a wall as a torrent of flame melted the ground where he had just been standing.

"You're quick boy," said a high, nasal voice above him.

_He hired _two _sets of thugs? _Reman thought bitterly.

"You must've really pissed him off," said the mage who stood on a nearby roof, as if reading Reman's thoughts, "He was almost begging us to take the contract."

"Us?"

A foot crunched in the snow behind Reman, the latter ducking as a sword swung at his previous neck height.

"That's right," said the lanky, sword and shield wielding man behind Reman.

Reman rolled away and came to his feet, his own shortsword in hand. The lanky man swung again but Reman managed to twist to the right, avoiding the blow, and retaliate with a sharp jab. The man glanced the blow off of his shield and stepped backwards. Streams of lightning burst from the mages hand but Reman had expected a magical attack and danced backwards.

"He's mine," barked the warrior, "leave him."

The mage shrugged and seated himself on the roofs edge. Snow swirled around the two as they circled each other. _This man is obviously a trained warrior, _thought Reman, _I only know what Gredj has showed me and that won't be enough._

Reman initiated the violence by sidestepping right and performing two, quick slashes. The man parried these easily and replied with a series of complex forms and manoeuvres that baffled Reman. The latter fell backwards, avoiding the sharp edge and threw snow at the man's face. The man knocked it out of the air almost contemptuously with his shield but Reman was already running away.

Reman sprinted past many other people as he entered a major street. He ducked and dodged around them, noticing with satisfaction as the thugs struggled to chase him through the throng. Reman continued down the street, ignoring the startled cries as he ducked past and the screams of outrage as the thugs shoved people aside. Snow and wind nearly blinded him but he knew his way down this street and before long he was past the people. He stood panting for a while, certain he had lost the thugs. After a minute of contemplation, he suddenly went cold as he remembered the mages' ability to detect life. On cue to his thoughts, the two pushed their way past the edges of the crown, joined by the armoured thugs from earlier.

Swearing, Reman angled for an alleyway. _I'd hoped it wouldn't come to bloodshed, _he thought as he reached the alleys mouth.

* * *

><p>As the thugs reached the alleyway, they took in a frightening sight. A dark skinned Orc, entirely armoured in the armour of his people, stood blocking their entrance to the alley. His dark head was bald except for a thick white braid that fell down the back. The Orc had a massive Battle-axe resting on his shoulder, his right hand sitting calmly on the shaft. Behind the Orc, Reman lent against the wall, panting heavily and eyeing them sadly.<p>

The mage pushed the others aside and strode to the front of the group.

"Get back Orc," he snarled, "We only want the boy."

The Orc calmly looked back at Reman and raised his eyebrows enquiringly. Reman nodded wearily and turned away.

"He said, GET BACK!" screamed an armoured thug as he rushed forward, greatsword held above his head. Without facing the front, the Orc simply raised the axe and brought it down with one hand. The thug's head was cleaved down the centre, blood and brains splashing the walls. The Orc faced the thug and twisted the axe, snapping the man's neck for good measure. The body dropped heavily to the ground, crimson staining the snow in a spreading puddle.

"Is what this boy did really worth your lives?" growled the Orc, cleaning the gore his axe on the snow.

"He stole from one of the major jewel merchants of Skyrim!" flared the lanky man, "Thievery from the rich cannot go unpunished."

"How much is this merchant paying you?"

"200 Septims each," said another armoured thug dutifully.

The Orc raised his eyebrow again. "And how many Septims do you think your lives are worth?"

They all frowned in thought. All except the mage, who strode forward and screamed, "I said to stand aside!"

"DON'T YOU LISTEN?" roared the Orc, a terrible rage leaping into his eyes, "I'M DOING YOU A FAVOUR BY LETTING YOU GO ALIVE!"

Cowed by the loudness and anger in his voice and the violence threatened by his eyes, the thugs broke and fled.

The Orc kicked snow over the blood, grumbling all the while. He turned around and looked at Reman.

"You hurt?"

Reman shook his head, "Thanks to you, Gredj."

Gredj shrugged and began sifting through the thugs pockets. His looting produced 50 Septims and a hunk of bread wrapped in leaves. Reman eyed the bread hungrily and smacked his lips. Gredj broke it into halves and handed the larger half to Reman who wolfed it down hungrily. Gredj ate his thoughtfully, staring at the corpse not three metres away.

"What'd you get?" he asked finally.

From his pockets, Reman produced five pure golden rings and seven silver-with-gems rings. Gredj's eyes widened and he muttered, "No wonder they were so desperate to catch you. This will feed us for weeks!"

Reman's eyes drifted to the world outside the alley as he fingered the cloak he'd stolen two weeks ago. People in tattered clothing shuffled past nervously, half ignoring the corpse at the entry to the alley; such things were common in the major cities, especially since half of Windhelm's food warehouses had been burnt by Downtrodden spies.

"We could do it, you know?" he said dreamily, "get out of Windhelm and head into the countryside. I heard that around Whiterun the farms remain fertile and Whiterun never goes hungry."

Gredj barked out a laugh and said, "Even these rings at a high price wouldn't get us that far."

"They won't get you far at all," said a Nordic accented voice from the mouth of the alley.

They both craned their heads to see as five Windhelm guards trooped into the alley. Gredj's hand closed around his axe but Reman placed a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"We've been ordered to bring you to the castle. Please don't resist as it will only end in pain for you."


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The main hall to the Palace of Kings was impressive in its size and grandeur. Its vaulted ceiling and wide width gave it an open feeling and made you feel small and insignificant against the splendour of the Jarl. Display cases and weapon racks lined the walls filled with fabled and storied weapons and artefacts. A long dining table sat down the centre but with the starvation of Windhelm, it held barely any food.

Gredj and Reman were bodily hauled along beside the table, Thanes and advisors pausing in their meagre meal to watch. Gredj's battle-axe was being carried by a guard and Reman's scabbard was empty. The Jarl of Windhelm, Yulterg the Scholar, lounged in his throne, a goblet of watered wine held deprecatingly in his hand. He was a tall, muscular man clothed in a rich, blue robe over velvet tunic and breeches. His grey eyes were searching as he watched Reman and Gredj be almost dragged to him.

"You, Orc," he said when they were cast in front of him, "From your expensive armour and weapon, I would imagine you would be passing through on your way to the fight at the border, am I right?"

Gredj shook his head, face set.

"No? Then that's something we will have to remedy," murmured the Jarl and then straightened, "Give him his axe and escort him to the border. We could use people like him down there."

"And what of the Imperial?" asked a guard, nodding to Reman.

The Jarl focused his gaze on Reman who, for reasons unknown even to him, began to tremble.

"The dungeons!" called out a Thane, "He's a known thief!"

"We're all thieves nowadays," sighed the Jarl wearily, "Send him to the border with his friend."

"My lord," Reman protested, straining against the hands of the guard holding him, "I have no armour and my sword was taken from me. Even if I had it with me, what could I do armed only with a shortsword and limited knowledge of swordcraft?"

Yulterg laid back into his chair thoughtfully, head resting on a fist. "_Limited _knowledge of swordcraft you say?"

"Yes my lord," Reman nodded, "Gredj has shown me the basics."

"Orc, I charge you with a task," the Jarl intoned. Gredj's eyes darkened in a black anticipation.

"Yes?"

"When you reach the fighting, I ask you to complete the training you bestowed upon your young friend."

Gredj's face relaxed and he replied, "Of course Jarl, I accept the task."  
>"Grulfly," the Jarl called. A guard stepped forward and clashed his fist against his chest. "Take the boy to the armoury and let him select whatever armour and weaponry he wishes. Am I clear?"<p>

"It shall be as you say, my Jarl."

"I am being overly merciful," the Jarl admitted, "But these are hard times; it is no wonder you took up the role of a thief. If you do desert your post, then it had better be because you found a better way to end the war; I will not be merciful with deserters. Now begone."

* * *

><p>The Windhelm armoury was a dark room, lit only by the fires of the forges. Weapons and armour of all shapes and sizes lined the walls and sat in racks. Apprentice blacksmiths and their masters were hammering steel into shape, cooling it, tempering it and all other manner of things Reman didn't recognize.<p>

Grulfly led Reman by the arm to a corner of the armoury where a middle-aged, fat man reclined in a chair, testing the edge of a dagger on his thumb. Thick, brown, curly locks cascaded down the side of his pudgy face.

"Lord Flayton," Grulfly called loudly, "I have a frontiersman in need of armour and a weapon."

Without lifting his gaze from the dagger Lord Flayton said, "No need to shout Grulfly, I'm not that old yet."

"Sorry my lord," Grulfly apologized, "that was a bit rude, wasn't it."

"Naturally it was; you're young. How's your mother?"

"She's fine sir, I'll tell her you asked."

"Good lad," said Flayton, finally lifting his gaze to Reman, "bit scrawny aren't you?"

Reman had no way to answer that. As he attempted to stammer out an answer, Grulfly saved him by saying, "He's off the street."

"Off the street?" exclaimed Flayton, raising an eyebrow, "seems they're sending anyone they can get their hands on down to the war."

"Indeed sir, but apparently he knows how to wield a sword."

"A swordsman is it?" Flayton said, heaving his bulk from the chair and moving to inspect and rack of swords, "Let's what we have."

He picked a sword up at random and inspected it. "Too heavy," he muttered, placing it back into its place. He picked up another. "Too short."

He continued like that for another ten minutes before finally choosing a hand-and-a-half sword; or commonly called a bastard sword. This type of sword was able to be wielded with either one or two hands. Reman was not tall enough to wear it at his waist so it had to be worn across his back. Reman was well pleased with his weapon; the shortsword had always felt more like a knife than a sword.

"And armour?" he inquired.

Flayton made that choice instantly. He selected a leather tunic and leggings, studded with steel. They offered Reman an arming cap for his head but he refused saying it impeded his vision.

"And now, you're all ready to go to war," said Flayton dryly, "Try to at least stay alive. Don't take unnecessary risks and you'll live longer. Remember that death finds the reckless faster."

* * *

><p>Travelling to the border took them a week. The Jarl had only been able to spare three guards and five horses to escort them and more than once, Reman contemplated overpowering the guards and fleeing but the thought was stopped by the duty he felt to the merciful Jarl. The guards themselves were nice enough but they spoke little and seemed to be sullen with their appointment. The landscape of Skyrim was bleak and barren and so the days passed in boredom and for the most part; silence. Riding had taken him three days on constant sitting in the saddle to master.<p>

Finally, at the end of the week, Reman caught sight of the Jerall mountains; towering, rugged, snow-capped peaks that stretched along the south of Skyrim and the North of Cyrodiil.

"I imagine that Pale Pass is a constant battlefield," grunted Gredj.

"If you could call it that. We fight a losing battle in the mountains," answered a guard in a surly voice, "especially the pass. Damn Bosmer can get an archer anywhere and they _never _miss."

That night, they halted three leagues from the mountains.

"We stop here," the lead guard announced, "you two had best enjoy your last free night. After tomorrow, you'll sleep light for the rest of your lives, however long they be."

Wearily, they all dismounted and released the straps holding their bedrolls to their saddles. As they set up camp, Gredj moved closer to Reman.

"This is it," he whispered.

"This is what?" Reman said, unrolling his bedding.

"This is our last chance to escape into Skyrim."

"We're in Skyrim already," Reman said, "It's not exactly where I want to be."

"Nor me," Gredj admitted.

The morning brought them snow. They woke with it already piling on their bedrolls, threatening to bury them. It was impossible to see more than five feet in front of you. Yet they struggled on, eager to reach the campfires at the warcamp, all clustered together, huddled in their own worlds.

"What's that?" a guard exclaimed, sliding his sword from his sheath. He nudged his horse's flanks and moved forward.

"Beir, get back here!" the leader barked, "you know not to go prancing off on your ow…" his rebuke was cut short as an arrow tore into his throat. Blood sprayed over Reman who was positioned behind him. The corpse made a dull thump as it toppled into the snow.

Beir stared disbelievingly at the lifeless form before him as the others drew their weapons. Suddenly, a faint figure appeared in the swirling snow behind Beir who stiffened as a dagger was plunged into his back.

Reman kicked his horse into a headlong gallop, sword held ready. The figure darted around the falling guard and sprinted at the charging Imperial. In an astonishing show of agility, the attacker leapt at Reman from three metres away. A clawed hand caught itself on his leather armour and tore him from the saddle. He slammed into the snow, a furry knee smashing into his chest, driving the breath from his lungs. A hooded Khajiit was crouched atop him, dagger brought back in preparation to drive into his heart. Reman saw the muscles in the Khajiit's arm tense and the former squeezed his eyes shut. Blood sprayed over his face and the weight on his chest was suddenly lifted. His eyes flew open to see the Khajiit lying on its back, Gredj's axe imbedded in its head. Gredj himself was ten metres away; he had thrown his weapon.

Reman shakily pushed himself to his feet, breath only just rushing into his lungs. White. All he could see was white. He stumbled forward blindly, arms thrust in front of him.

"What happened to the archer?" he thought hazily, "Shouldn't I be dead?"

"I guess you could thank me for that," said an accented voice next to him. Suddenly, a deep, booming voice echoed from the mountains. It uttered three words that washed over Reman's senses like a tidal wave. The wind abated and the storm quickly cleared.

A Dark Elf stood next to Reman, longsword resting on his shoulder. The sword's splattered was wet with crimson blood, as was the chainmail the elf wore. His face was angular and his eyes red, a scar twisting his lips into a lopsided grin. He had long, dark hair atop his head and a short goatee.

The man grinned and said, "My name is Athalik. Welcome to the border."


End file.
